


Being Nigel

by Tantaylor



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Dom/sub, Drug Use, Love Confessions, M/M, rhythm section
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26996257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tantaylor/pseuds/Tantaylor
Summary: It was still there. In fact, it had never gone.
Relationships: John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Being Nigel

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my mother-tongue, no beta
> 
> Feedback welcome  
> Thank you

The feeling came so completely unexpected that John almost dropped his bass.  
Smart idea in the middle of a show, huh?  
All the time he had deluded himself that it was no longer there. God, it was so long ago. Decades.  
It was not that he was ashamed of what had happened then.  
In fact, he liked to think back on it, even though he hadn't really allowed himself to do so since the reunion.  
But there it was, clear and undeniable.  
The seamless continuation of something that started sometime in 1980, of something that made a brief, painful comeback in 1994.  
It was there, in the way those eyes bore into him, the way they seemed to go straight to the bottom of his soul. It was there in every movement, and above all, it was there in that knowing little smile

It would be helpful if he could at least avert his gaze. Damn it.

He couldn't. But he was not the only one who did not look away.

And there was so much knowledge in the gaze that met his own that he knew that avoiding and keeping silent had now come to an end. 

They would have to talk.  
Maybe not.  
Maybe they would just pick up where they left off.

John thought both would be ok. He wouldn't have to think about it.  
That was the good part. He wouldn't have to think. He wouldn't have to make decisions.  
And he realized he missed this.

Thinking for himself and making his own decisions had not really been good for him for a long time. So often he had made the wrong decisions. In fact, always.

Until he almost died in 1994. He had not blamed himself for that either. 

The man who could have prevented it had left him. Again. That`s what he thought.

But he was back now, wasn't he? And he had been back for a long time.

He was there and he knew.

No one was surprised that he disappeared right after the show. He always did that since he was clean.  
While the others were still partying, of course with lots of alcohol, he often sat alone in his hotel room and read.

But tonight he had other plans and he hoped that he had interpreted this look correctly.  
He laughed quietly at himself as his fingers trembled a little when he opened his WhatsApp contacts.

It would be easier to start this conversation this way. That way he would be better able to deal with it if he was wrong, if that look hadn't meant what he thought it meant.

*I think it is still there. Can it be?* he typed and sent the message off.  
_Stupid start. Pretty stupid start._  
Oh, fuck. What did he actually think?

*I didn't think the new John could still feel it* The answer came within seconds, as if his text was expected.

*The new John is much more the old John than the guy he long pretended to be.* This time there was no reply, although his message had been read immediately.

John's palms got sweaty. He counted slowly to a hundred, forced himself to remain calm.  
*Please answer me* he finally typed. *I've seen it, you still feel it too. It was in your eyes.*  
*How I feel about you has never changed, John. But you know what they say about sleeping dogs. Do you really want to wake them up after all this time?*

*They are already absolutely awake since the thing on stage. I don't know what it was, some movement from you, one look, and boom. You were in my head, just like back then.*  
*Why now, Nigel? I have been back for over a decade. You always pretended like none of this had happened. Why now?*

That was indeed a good question. Why now?  
Maybe because he was sure of himself now. There had been setbacks. Times when he thought he couldn't stay clean. Times when he had doubted that this reunion would work. Especially after Andy had left for the second time. Times when he thought he had everything he needed. A healthy, normal sex life, for example. With women, of course.

He searched for words to express this in a way that was somehow understandable and found none, because the man simply made him too nervous.  
*No answer is an answer, Nigel. I wish you a good night. Put the dogs back to sleep*

No. No, he couldn`t.  
God, that WhatsApp writing was just childish, right? They would sort it out like the grown men they were!  
He would only have to walk a few feet down the corridor.  
All he had to do was knock on the door.  
And if he would not be let in, he would cope with that. Somehow. But he had to try.  
Said door was not locked, it was open slightly. Invitingly. He was awaited.  
There it was, this long missed feeling, this strange mixture of calm and excitement.

If he really went in, there would be no going back.  
He took a deep breath and stepped forward, pushing the door fully open as he did.  
He was sitting in an armchair, facing the door, his gentle face in the semi-darkness of the dim lighting from a small bedside lamp.  
“I didn't think you were really coming, Nigel. But I'm glad you're here.”  
The calm, strong presence was so intense that it took his breath away. How could he have denied it for so long?  
What was between them, what he was, what he wanted, what he felt. And why now? Why had it come back? Had it ever been gone?  
John dropped to his knees in front of the man in the chair, the intimacy of this gesture reassuring and comforting. He felt strangely protected. Nothing bad would happen to him, down here, where his place was.

“I think because I can now be reasonably sure not to relapse. Because, for the first time in my life, no major disasters have happened for more than 20 years. Because at last everything is working as it should have worked back then. We. The band. Life, everything.”  
He wasn't sure whether he was answering himself or the man, but the words came naturally. Quietly, but surely. “I think I am strong enough now to be myself. I no longer need my disguise, my existence as a womanizer. I just don't want to live a lie anymore, Roger.”

Rum Runner, Birmingham, 1980  
They screamed. They screamed so fucking loud; John couldn't hear the music anymore. His own, Andy's guitar, Simon's voice. Even Nick's epic keyboard sounds got lost in the noise.  
He thought he would love it. Girls who screamed his name incessantly. Fans cheering them on. But it was hell. He lost his rhythm, he lost his focus, everything went down in screaming. To make matters worse, everything faded before his eyes because he had been too vain to put on his glasses. Nigel wore glasses, Nigel the loser, but not John.  
He became dizzy. Shit, he'd fall right here.  
Panic rolled in in a huge, crushing wave, and he turned to Roger, to Roger whose unwavering roar of the bass drum was the only thing he could still feel.  
It was a steady, soothing rumble in his stomach, a constant, a lifeline. Something that gave him stability.  
When he met Roger's gaze, something very strange happened. The panic wave broke before it reached him.  
The gentle, calm stare held him down.  
You can do this, Nigel, we can do this together. I'm here, I'll help you. You can do it.  
It was all in that gaze, and John held on to it like a drowning man.  
And it worked. It really worked.

That was by far not the strangest thing that happened that night.

After their performance, Roger came to him, quietly and unobtrusively as it was his way.

“Will you come to my place, Nigel? My family's not there and I don't want to be alone.”

“I don't want to be alone either.”

They had walked, all the way, because they didn't have enough money for a taxi. 

They both kept quiet. Roger was silent a lot, which sometimes annoyed John.

Not that night, that night it was comforting.

It wasn't until they sat in Roger's room that a question came up, a question that puzzled John deeply.

“Are you and Nick actually a couple?”  
“What? Are you stupid? I'm no faggot, man!”  
“I see. I'm sorry.” Roger's facial expression did not match his words at all. He grinned a bit arrogantly, something that actually didn't suit him.

“Where did you get that idea, Roger?”

“I don't know. You're pretty. Nick's pretty. You'd make a good match. Although I think you need someone stronger, Nigel, I think you need something else.”

“I need a girl, you idiot! A girl with big, soft tits, man!”

“Yeah, that's why you panic when they start shouting your name. That's why you had to turn to me to save you. You would have been lost without me, admit it! I know who you are, Nigel. I know what you are. And I want you to be mine.”

“My name's John, you dumb bastard! And I'm not into men.”

“You are Nigel. And you need someone to tell you what to do. You're weak, Nigel. And I don't mean that in a negative way. You need someone to keep you on track, or you're going down. You want to please too much, you want to please everybody, and you can't, it'll break you.”  
John had fled. Because that was not the Roger he knew. Because Roger was spouting unbelievable bullshit. Because he was not gay and because he would not let anyone tell him what to do.  
And then came the gig at Hammersmith Odeon. It was like the gig at Rum Runner, only a hundred times worse. Many more fans, many more screams. Hell.  
And he had to turn to the drums, he had to let Roger hold him.  
After that they had sex for the first time, Roger had tied John to the bed. No, Nigel. He had allowed John to be Nigel, the weak, insecure Nigel. And he had guided him, held him, loved him.  
There were many repetitions, secret, hidden, and always only when John lost his footing.

Roger always let him be weak and gave him strength, contradictory as it sounded.  
But when drugs and alcohol became more important than their meetings, when John submitted to drugs more than him, Roger had withdrawn.  
“I can't watch you destroy yourself, John. Me or the drugs, you choose.”  
Well, John had chosen the drugs, because he was not gay, was he? And he wasn't what they called submissive, as he found out years later. He was John Taylor, and he could have any woman he wanted, and he fucked them all, he was strong and confident and dominant. Not. A. Gay. Submissive. Nope!  
He did not need Roger. He certainly didn't.

Paris, 1994  
John was so doped up that he could barely hold his bass. In fact, he was so stoned that he hallucinated, because the man who just entered the studio could not possibly be Roger, his Roger, his hold. The only person who had ever understood him. And yet he had left him, just like everyone else. Had dropped him like a hot potato when he needed him most. All this talk of support and protection had been just hollow talk, just a way to fuck him, to use him like everyone else had done.  
It had to be a hallucination because it felt absolutely unreal to watch Roger hugging Simon first and then Nick warmly before shaking hands with Warren.

“Nigel.” He nodded in his direction.  
“My name is John, you bloody bastard.”  
“Yes, of course, forgive me. Coked up to the brim of his hat, of course that's John.”  
Without another word Roger sat down behind the drums.  
John did not understand what was going on. Why was he here? What was that about?  
Only hours later did the drug fog clear up and John found himself in front of Roger's hotel room. He needed.  
He needed to be allowed to be weak, he needed a hold, to be able to fly tied up, safe. He needed Roger.  
His knock was not answered, the door was locked. A symbol of the last years. Locked doors. Locked doors, against which he ran, over and over again. Excluded. He was excluded from the land of the living, the lovers. There was no love where he was.  
And deep inside he knew it was his fault. But it was so much easier to blame others. Especially Roger. Roger, who should have shown him the way. Roger, who had promised to take care of him.  
“You lying fucking bastard!” he yelled at the locked door only to stumble against a muscular body a little later.  
“You're the only one who is lying here, John Taylor. You're lying to yourself. Go coke your brains out and fuck your willing girls.”  
John threw his fucking pride overboard and fell to his knees.  
“Please! I want to feel. Please! Help me! Let me feel.”  
Roger had grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the room behind him. Then he had hurt him, as much as no one had ever hurt him before. Had beaten him with his leather belt, bitten him, yelled at him, fucked him to bits. And John had enjoyed every single second of it, had never felt so alive, so sober and real, so much himself.  
All the worse had been the awakening, alone, a note on the bedside table.

*I can't do this, John. I can't come back and I can't love you. I don't want to be a substitute for your drugs. Go into rehab, my beloved. Only then can we be who we are.*  
Only now and here, 20 years later, did he understand the true meaning of the words. What he had understood then as a renewed rejection had been a declaration of love. A declaration of love to the man he really was. To Nigel.  
Roger`s Nigel.  
In 1994, after that last night together, he had wanted to die. He had taken all the drugs he could find.  
But he had not died.  
He had woken up in hospital knowing that he had to change his life. The months in rehab had been hard. Fuck, the years after rehab had been hard.

But now he was here, sober and alive, on his knees, and he was himself. Finally. 

"Oh, Nigel! My beautiful Nigel! I have waited so long for this moment. So long! "

Roger leaned over and kissed him, deep and honest and incredibly sexy.

Yeah. It was there. It had never been gone.


End file.
